Roots
by MaidenStar
Summary: During a visit to Simmons's home for the summer break, Fitz is happy to learn a little more about Simmons's roots as he sees her home, and they take an afternoon walk in the countryside.


**This just got thrown out in a couple of streams of consciousness so I'm not sure it's all that great but here it is anyway. May add a few chapters if people think it's worth it. **

**As ever though, feedback is really appreciated! **

* * *

The Tannoy rang out with a familiar jingle and the even, expressionless voice announced that the next train to arrive on Platform 1a would be the 12.55 to Sheffield. Exchanging a quick, neutral look they both rose from their seats in the little makeshift café that sat oddly in the middle of the tiny station, looking incongruous and out of place, as if a giant hand had simply dropped it there one day with no explanation. Picking up their bags, and scooping up their rubbish from the table, they ambled out towards their platform.

Even here in a busy city airport, the adjoining station was somewhat quieter than they had come to be used to, with only four small platforms. It was a discreet reminder of a life before they'd met, before SHIELD and the bustle of the campus, and the city just a way away. It was a familiar sweeping feeling of _home_ for both, and it ran through them in a pleasant ripple though neither was from Manchester. It was a tiny burst of the familiar, of an almost forgotten, ineffable _something_ that swam deep within them. It was so _good_ to be here, so good to come back.

A few beams of sunshine crept under the station roof, and Fitz watched as Simmons contentedly turned her face up to meet them, the bright light gleaming on her face in two, wide blocks. It illuminated every freckle that she usually took such great pains to cover, although she had opted to forgo makeup for the long journey home. Fitz told her, sometimes, that he thought she was crazy, that they were lovely. But he never told her that he'd love to count each one, that he thought they were incredibly beautiful.

He had, however, come close (countless times) to reciting the adage, _behind every freckle is an inch of beauty_ to her every time she lamented the presence of the tiny dots scattered across her forehead like confetti, but he couldn't bring himself to. The beauty wasn't hiding behind tiny clusters of melanin, not in the slightest. It was there for everyone to see. He wasn't the only person who noticed her, far from it.

"Fitz," she smiled, nudging him and he was reminded that he had probably been staring at her for longer than was acceptable, lost in a different world. "Let's go," she told him, picking up her holdall and her backpack and pressing the button to open the train doors. He followed behind closely, helping her hoist their bags to the top rack of the luggage hold and checking their seat numbers. She indicated that he should sit down first, and he was grateful that he had never had to tell her just how much he still, even now in his twenties, revelled in the childhood dream of _the window seat_. Three burly, brash older brothers and a surprisingly voracious younger sister left him at the bottom of the pile on Fitz family holidays, never in the front seat of the car, never able to press his face against the window and count the cars that looked like tiny models as their plane took off or landed. He smiled briefly at her, and she returned it, and his whole world was alight with the pink curve of Jemma Simmons' smile.

The journey was short, only just over an hour, and they didn't speak much as they watched the blur of green fields, interspersed with speckles of white and brown – livestock – pass by. A short time in, he felt Jemma lift the armrest that separated them, and turned to her questioningly, noticing her eyes drooping slightly. She delicately curled up in her seat, knees bent and feet tucked neatly underneath her, as she leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder. He tried not to react, unreasonably happy, perhaps, at how it made him feel that she was comfortable enough to do this, and that he was comfortable enough to enjoy the contact.

Fitz had never been so physically comfortable with people (aside from perhaps certain relatives) before Simmons, and this kind of contact would normally have left him wanting to run for the hills. As it was, he and Simmons had never generally showed affection physically. Their relationship had started through their minds, their intellects, and it had largely continued that way. He'd first fallen in love, heart and soul, with her in the deepest, most platonic of ways. She was the only person who had asked him what he thought because she actually cared and not because she was a teacher, coaching him in his own studies. She asked him about his devices because she was interested in them, and in him. And so, if something was to be dealt with, then it was crafted in thoughts and melded into words, if comfort was to be given it was in the form of soft speech rather than lingering touches. But, then, their closeness did little to discourage the physical either, and this sort of thing was more than natural by now.

"Wake me up at quarter to two," she murmured sleepily and he nodded.

"Okay," he whispered, the tender note to his voice inescapable.

For the next forty-five minutes, he contented himself in regarding her as she dozed, or otherwise in people-watching more generally as those around them got on and off, first at Picadilly, then at Stockport. He skimmed through a journal he'd largely read on the plane, but the jet-lag was finally hitting him too and the words swam slightly under his gaze and he flipped it shut in less than five minutes.

At half past one, a lady wheeled a drinks trolley by and he quietly bought himself a coffee and ordered a tea for her, the middle-aged woman smiling down knowingly at the two of them as she handed over two Styrofoam cups, and he wondered what assumptions she, like half the people they met, had doubtless made.

"Simmons," he whispered, moving his shoulder gently fifteen minutes later, acknowledging that the heavy throb in the area was worth the warmth of her body that trickled through to him.

"Mmm?" she murmured, clearly more heavily asleep than he'd realised.

"You wanted me to wake you up," he told her, smiling fondly.

"No I didn't," she mumbled accusingly, and he held in a small laugh as she nuzzled her head further into his shoulder, pressing herself closer to him. A few moments later, however, and she was more aware, eyes snapping open and head jerking up in disorientation.

"Oh, God," she groaned, stretching and rubbing her fists into her eyes in firm circles. "Sorry, I didn't think I'd actually go off like that."

"You needed it," he shrugged, handing her the tea. "Train quality," he grimaced, "but it's probably better than nothing. Just."

She chuckled slightly, thanking him and stirring in the milk they'd left for her.

"The food trolley hasn't been round yet though," he grumbled, his stomach growling even as he spoke.

"Ah, yes!" she said suddenly. "That was why I wanted you to wake me." She dove under the seat in front of her, extracting a carrier bag from her backpack and setting it on the tray table in front of her. "I went to the _Spar_ while you were in loo," she explained, plucking out two bottles, two sandwiches and various other snacks. She handed over a bottle of coke and a ham and cheese sandwich.

"Brilliant," he said taking them eagerly from her. "Thanks."

"They probably won't taste much better than the coffee," she insisted, pulling open the wrapper on her own sandwich – chicken salad – and gingerly pulling one half out of the plastic container.

"Doesn't matter," he told her contentedly, already close to finishing the first half of his own food.

She rolled her eyes at him, and cautiously bit into her own, concentrating as she ate a piece and evidently deciding it was at least passable, as she took a more confident second bite.

"So I have my uses sometimes?" she joked.

"At least ninety per cent of them are linked to sandwiches," he told her thoughtfully, "but yes".

"Oh right and what's the ten per cent?"

"Sometimes you clean up my workspace in the lab. And sometimes you put my dirty laundry in with yours."

She promptly plucked the crisps and biscuits off of the table, holding them in her hand furthest from him.

"I hope the sandwich was enough, because these are all mine now."

"You wouldn't!"

"Watch me."

"Never." He leaned over in an attempt to pull them back and she fought him until she was laughing too much and gave in and if they attracted any attention from other passengers as they opened up the food and shared it between them, neither really noticed.

* * *

Simmons, he knew, had (like himself) been something of a loner at school, and at university. Being so much younger – and smarter – than everyone else had its downsides and the enforced solitude was one of them. And yet while Fitz was perhaps more assured in his own intellectual ability, it was Simmons who was more confident in her own skin. Although to see her flirt or interact with certain people you'd never believe it, Fitz knew that, freckles issue aside, she really was quite at ease with who she was. He had never understood that, never been able to imitate her self-confidence and had longed to know from where she had garnered it.

When he saw the three figures waiting for them as they stepped off the train and made their way through the barriers, however, it fell into place. Her parents and her sister brimming with the same sweetness and easy manner. They welcomed her like she was the sky and stars, and all three were a familiar picture of two shining, excited brown eyes and wide, straight-toothed smiles. And while Fitz had always had a good relationship with certain relatives, and a fair rapport with the rest, they would never quite have greeted him as though a lost treasure, of national importance at the least, had been rightfully returned.

He had been nervous about this moment, unconvinced at just how much they would want him around for the short time their daughter would be at home, but he had had no plans for the holidays and Jemma had been loath to leave him while she travelled home. She had, apparently, asked her mother whether Fitz could come with her and assured him that her response had been extremely positive. He was in no doubt, minutes later, that this had been the case. Mrs. Simmons welcomed him with a small hug and a light kiss of his own, checking that he wasn't too jet-lagged and, minutes later, Mr. Simmons was offering to help with his bags even as the younger sister (Fitz was embarrassed that he was never quite sure which was Hannah and which was Ellie), whose own hello had been a little shier but no less warm, helped Jemma with her own luggage. He thanked them over and over for having him to stay as they walked to the car park at the back of the station, and each time they waved it away with an airy, happy smile and a vague hand gesture.

"Not at all Leo, we're happy to have you," they replied every time, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Their drive through the city and out into the countryside was pleasant enough, the afternoon sun casting everything in a warm, orange light as they chatted about everything and nothing, with Fitz squeezed against the car door on one side, and Simmons on the other. Eventually, about half an hour out of the city, the roads began to narrow and buildings began to slip away, as though they were falling off the sides of a rather green platform, until all around was just a pleasant patchwork of green fields before a smaller village crept into view and, driving past, Jemma began to point out different features.

"Just down there, that's the road to the school I used to go to, Ellie – she's at home at the moment – still goes there. And, there – look! – that's the surgery mum works at. That's the park we'd sometimes play in."

He smiled contentedly and listened to her speak, happy to hear all about Jemma's past again, happy to discover where her roots were and to look at the different places that were imprinted on her memory, that were all a thread in the tapestry of her person. It was like watching someone isolate different strings of colour; the red brick of her old school building roof was just another shade in a bigger picture, but it was nice to see it finally, to see the way it made up a whole.

When they finally pulled into her drive, he was keenly reminded for a moment of just how different their backgrounds were. He had spent his life either in a council house in a really rather rough neighbourhood, or later once the family business had picked up again, in a modest terraced house a few streets away. The Simmons's house was huge, set apart from the village and nestled back from the narrow track road they'd driven down, being jostled against each other on the uneven, dirt path.

He was shown inside, Mrs. Simmons insistent that someone else would get his bag, and he and Jemma were assaulted almost instantly by two huge, burly golden retrievers and Jemma was greeted by her brother and youngest sister, who greeted Fitz a moment later. The next hour was a rush of 'is this room alright?' and 'let me show you where the bathroom is' and insistences that he unpack his things into the drawers (no matter that he never even used the ones in his own room at the Academy) and 'will you have a cup of tea and some food? You must be so hungry,' and it was exhausting and pleasant and all too homey.

"Jemma, show Leo around the rest of the house while I start the dinner will you?" Mrs. Simmons, who insisted instantly that he call her Helen, said absently as she began peeling carrots.

Jemma rose, rolling her eyes and whispering, "come on, I'll show you my room and then we'll go for a walk."

Her room was as grand as the rest of the house, a plush double bed sitting against one wall, a TV and a stack of DVDs on a stand opposite it and, frankly, the rest appeared to be made of books. There were so many he wondered if they were perhaps holding the walls up. He skimmed his hands against some of the titles, certain spines worn so much more than others, and he could imagine Jemma, a skinny girl of ten with tanned skin and sun-bleached hair reading through piles of books every summer under the tree in the garden, sipping a bottle of lemonade and eating crisps.

He looked over at her from where she was perched on the stool beside her dressing table, and found her looking nervous, as though waiting on his approval, or perhaps worried the size, or grandeur, of the old house would have put him off of her. As if anything ever could.

He grinned at her, and her whole countenance eased up. He didn't need to say anything, a little look was enough.

* * *

Half an hour later, and she'd suggested they make the most of the evening sunshine, and they were both ambling along together as the two retrievers gambolled about a few feet ahead. The sun was hovering over the horizon and cast long shadows over everything, their own stretching out beside them as two silent, stealthy companions.

Jemma had guided them to a specific spot, murmuring that she wanted to show him a certain place and they had walked slowly, but with purpose, in a comfortable silence that was as warm as the beams of light on their faces. The landscape was steeply inclined, and as they hiked their way to the crest of a hill, he paused for a minute to look out behind them.

She stopped beside him, nudging him with her shoulder.

"I love it here," she told him quietly. "I'd come out here all the time when I was a kid."

He looked down at her covertly, found her staring out at the sprawling, empty fields, all intersected by a maze of walls and hedgerows, with a thoughtful smile and he could tell by the look in her eyes that she was elsewhere, remembering a childhood he almost envied her for. He had not had a bad childhood by anyone's standards but the freedom to have sat out here alone and thought, or designed, was something Fitz had never experienced.

"I used to sneak out," she went on a moment later, "it was probably incredibly stupid for a child to come out here on her own. Mum would go crazy when she'd come home from work and find me MIA," she laughed. "But she always knew where I'd be."

He smiled, humming thoughtfully and eventually laughing along with her. That noise was infectious.

"Come on," she said suddenly, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him along, calling for the dogs to follow them. "I'll show you where I used to sit," she slipped her hand into his and led the way, pulling him towards a crumbling, low wall and through an old kissing gate and up and up the hill until they found themselves under the wide branches of a towering, ancient tree. An old tyre was tied to a branch with some rope, it was swaying in the gentle breeze and up here, the tiny bursts of wind carried the sweet smell of gorse bushes on their tail.

It was that moment, he thought, that the smell of bushes with prickly thorns and yellow flowers came to remind him so keenly of her.

"Look," she pointed out an old knot in the trunk of the tree, "I used to fit right in there, it was more comfortable than it looks," and she half-ran to it, him jogging behind her. He watched as she skimmed her hand over the bark, and he wondered what multitude of feelings and memories, what whispers of past times, spoke to her while she was here. The pale, soft skin of her hand stood out starkly on the dark wood, but it was punctuated by the dots of ink she'd placed there earlier, a faded reminder to email someone once she was home. He was for some reason fascinated by those little words, a stark pointer of a whole buzz of activity that came to rest within her; of email contacts and journal papers and coffee dates.

She made her way over to the old tyre and, using the rope, hoisted herself onto it so she was standing on the bottom of the inner circle. It moved against her slight weight and, still hanging onto the rope, she arched her back so that her head dipped out behind her, hair fanned out in a shiny brown crown.

"Dad put this up once he realised that I was always going to sneak out here. He seemed to understand more than mum, why I liked to be alone sometimes," she told him, and his heart lurched at the note to her voice. He forgot, sometimes, just how much they related to each other, just how much she understood the double-edged nature of the gift of their intelligence. He had forgotten that she knew the pull of solitude, quiet, peaceful solitude that sounded like birdsong and smelt of summer grass. When so many people couldn't, or didn't want to, understand you even when you stood amongst them, it was sometimes a small pleasure to make the choice to be alone with your ideas.

He craved the knowledge of how many ideas had been formulated here, even if perhaps she herself did not know it. He wondered how many times she had cast upon an idea as she sat beneath the dappled sunlight, writing out notes in one of the many notebooks he had leafed through, an idea that she couldn't understand at fourteen, an idea which had lingered, unbeknownst to her, until she was ready for it.

Eventually, she hopped off the swing, and sat on small patch of grass that hadn't grown as high as the rest, that was sometimes cast in the shade of the tree. He joined her a second later, barely able to keep his eyes off of the smile on her face. He'd seen her smile a hundred different ways and yet this one was new, it was freer. She was content to be herself out here, with no apologies and no limits and he was suddenly aware that her showing him this had been a sign of trust, even if she had not intended it to be so.

She stretched herself out on until she was lying on her back, her nose wrinkling as a stray piece of yellowed grass tickled it slightly, and he plucked it from the ground and twirled it in his fingers as he laid down beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder, legs touching.

"I'm glad you showed me this," he told her, watching as the bright blue of the sky seemed to darken before their very eyes.

"I'm glad too," she whispered, watching as he knotted the brittle strand of grass over itself.

They watched in silence as the sun finally yielded to the sky and dipped beneath the horizon below them, both knowing that this was not strictly accurate, but preferring to imagine it that way.

She sighed out contentedly, admitting that it was nice to be home.

And it was, he agreed silently, it _was_ nice to be home. Although this was not his home, would never be, he was gradually coming to realise that home, as much a person as a place, was as much her as it was the houses he grew up in in Glasgow. And in seeing _her_ home, in seeing her roots, in walking arm in arm with her to make it home in time for dinner, he was perhaps beginning to find a little more of his own.


End file.
